


A Prince's Tale of Cats and Warlocks

by dornfelder



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Fake Character Death, M/M, Magic Revealed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 07:02:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dornfelder/pseuds/dornfelder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur finds out about Merlin's magic, and he reacts badly. In the aftermath he's left to deal with the consequences and the pieces of a life that refuse to fit together as they used to. On his way towards understanding  (and, perhaps, reconciliaton), he gains an unexpected, albeit reluctant ally – of the furred and four-legged kind. It takes more than a few words of regret to earn a warlock's forgiveness, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Prince's Tale of Cats and Warlocks

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: maybelater__

** A Prince's Tale of Cats and Warlocks **

 

 **Midnight**  
“I miss you,” Arthur whispers, lying on his side, warm and cosy in his bed beneath blankets and furs. The silent confession makes him blush, but at least the darkness conceals it even to the cat. He's got to be more than a little drunk, or he wouldn't make an admission like that to someone who can't even hear him. 

Green eyes blink at him sleepily from the chair next to the fireplace, reflecting the glow of the ember, light nearly gone in the silent hour before midnight. The cat yawns audibly.

 

 **Propriety**  
Arthur's new manservant is quiet and frighteningly competent. 

His name is Oscar – docile, obedient Oscar, who is never once late for his duties. Arthur can rely on his bath water to have the right temperature, no matter what, and his clothes are mended before he even realises they were torn. His rooms have never looked so neat and tidy before; even the cobwebs are gone for good and the freshly-cleaned curtains smell of lavender and thyme.

Oscar never calls Arthur a prat or forgets to add 'sire' to his respectful questions and humble replies. He rarely ever speaks to Arthur when it's not related to his duties. Oscar is middle-aged, married to one of the laundresses. They have two daughters, the elder one of which already works in the scullery: a whole family of devoted, happily bowing servants. 

Oscar's going bald. He looks haggard and always, constantly, permanently concerned. Sometimes he sighs a little when he needs to go down to his knees to pull off Arthur's boots or bend over in front of the fireplace, or when he's returning with a full bucket the eighth time to fill the bathtub. His movements are slow on these occasions, a little stiff. Yet Oscar never complains.

 

 **Recollection**  
Arthur chides himself for his stupidity. He should have known, how could he have been so blind not to see the obvious? It's not as if there hadn't been something strange about Merlin all along. 

Some events start to make sense now, in his memory. Others still don't. There are too many things he can't understand, too many facts Merlin kept hidden from him.

Arthur's had weeks and months now to brood about it, realising he's been told half-truths and outright lies more often than not. It is as if the history of the last three years has been rewritten, and still Arthur doesn't understand his part in it, or Merlin's.

 

 **Winter**  
Winter comes early this year and the peasants predict it will be long and harsh. Camelot had a plentiful harvest, but other kingdoms beyond the borders are less fortunate. 

Standing at the window, Arthur looks over the hills with their leafless trees and brown, muddy fields. Flocks of crows are flying overhead, their caws like a tale of forlornness and sorrow. The sky is clouded and as Arthur watches, the first snowflakes start drifting to the ground. 

Arthur wonders where Merlin is, and what he's doing. Did he find somewhere to stay? Shelter, a home, a place to belong? If he's as powerful a wizard as Gaius says, maybe he's gone to offer his services to a king who doesn't ban magic, who has no qualms utilising it for his purposes. The thought is designed to make him angry, but deep down he knows Merlin would never let himself be used that way. It's much more likely that he's still out there trying to earn a living. 

Something tightens painfully in Arthur's chest. 

A sudden movement to his left attracts his attention and he reaches for his dagger, instinctively taking on a defensive stand before he realises it's just the cat that has once more found a way to break into his rooms. He slowly relaxes and rolls his eyes. 

“So it's you again,” he says, turning his head back towards the window. “I can't blame you. I wouldn't want to be outside either. Much warmer and cosier in here.”

Arthur's eyes search the horizon. It's getting dark outside, the snow is falling faster now, thick flakes that start to cover the ground wherever they land.

“I sent men to Ealdor today,” Arthur says. He has started talking to the cat recently, not knowing why he does it, only that talking to it means he doesn't have to censor his words or justify his opinions. It's not as if it could report back to his father. “With a cartload of rye and barley, cider and dark ale – a gift, so they won't forget Camelot. To secure their loyalty. I told Sir Balan to make sure Hunith gets her share. I mean, she is a lovely woman, I wouldn't want her to starve. It is not her fault that...” 

_that her son is a sorcerer. That I made him leave Camelot so he cannot send her food supplies this winter_. 

 

 **Insistence**  
“Tell me,” Arthur demands, facing Gaius at his old work table in his quarters. 

Gaius looks exhausted and worried, watching Arthur like a mouse watches a hungry predator from the safety of its bolt-hole. Trying to read him, to figure him out.

“Tell me about him. About his magic,” Arthur says and Gaius swallows nervously. 

“Sire -”

“Tell me,” Arthur repeats for a third time, expecting a refusal. He won't force the issue if Gaius decides to disobey. He thinks he owes Gaius that much. 

Gaius sighs and gets up from his chair. He moves slowly, age showing in every movement, in the hunch of his shoulders and the tiredness around his eyes. He fetches a bottle of strong, herb-flavoured liqueur and two small cups. When he offers one of them, filled to brim, to Arthur, Arthur accepts and swallows the bitter, aromatic liquid down in one go. If Gaius wanted to poison him, he'd choose a less obvious way to do it. Not that Arthur really cares at this point.

Gaius fills their cups again. They drink. They don't talk, not until Gaius sighs again and starts telling Arthur everything he knows from the beginning, about dragons and destiny and a boy more powerful than any wizard alive.

 

 **Fondness**  
“You're not half bad a companion,” Arthur muses, pulling the shirt over his head, words muffled by the fabric. “Nice to have around. For a stubborn, impertinent, stupid _animal_ that is.”

The cat looks at him with an obvious lack of interest and closes its eyes a moment later, curled up on the window-sill, head resting on its paws, tail twitching the tiniest bit.

Arthur snorts. 

 

 **Parallel**  
Arthur rarely talks to Gwen these days. It simply isn't the same; whatever he thought he felt for her turned out to be insubstantial, a flimsy excuse. Wanting her meant he couldn't possibly want Merlin, so he pretended to like her _that way_ when deep down he very well knew he didn't.

Gwen avoids him, too. She tried to find out what happened in the days that followed Merlin's disappearance, but Arthur refused to talk to her, and now their paths hardly ever cross. Their lives, once interwoven with the ones of Morgana and Merlin, have no common ground anymore.

 

 **Hierarchy**  
Shouldn't you be out there hunting mice?” Arthur asks, mildly curious. 

The cat ignores him, licking its tail, working at it with long, unhurried strokes of a pink, agile tongue.

Arthur sighs. “I honestly don't know why I haven't thrown you out yet. I don't even _like_ you.”

The cat doesn't bother to look up.

“You seem to forget who's in charge here,” Arthur murmurs, although he doesn't actually feel in charge at the moment. 

Not when it comes to the cat, anyway.

 

 **Lenience**  
Arthur doesn't make fun of Oscar or call him names.

Instead he tells him not to stoke the fire, although it's a chilly October night, Arthur just returned from a hunting trip, and he'd very much like to sit down in front of the fireplace and let the warmth banish the numbness from his limbs. 

He tells Oscar he won't need his services at the evening feast, and that Oscar may return home to his wife and his daughters early.

And no, Arthur won't need Oscar to accompany him to the training grounds the next day. 

 

 **Curiosity**  
“What are you doing here? Off with you,” is what Arthur says as he sees the cat sitting on his desk on a scroll of parchment. If he didn't know better, he'd have sworn the cat was trying to _read_ it as he came into the room. “Shoo!”

The cat jumps down from the desk, sending a quill and an old lump of seal wax to the floor, and strolls through the room. With a wary glance at Arthur, it claims the chair in front of the fireplace, jumping on the armrest and sitting down. The tail moves restlessly and taps on the dark wood in an irregular pace: _tap, tap, tap_. 

“I don't know how you get in here time after time”, Arthur says, “But I strongly advise you to look for a more hospitable place to stay. Otherwise I might decide to take my dogs up here for an hour or two.”

He feels a little silly, talking to the cat. On the other hand, he's alone in his chambers, no witnesses there to testify to his weird behaviour. The cat won't tell.

A week later, he finds the cat rummaging through the cupboard. Coming into the room, he sees only a wiggling backside and an excitedly twitching tail. The cat's head and its front paws are buried beneath a heap of red and golden cloth and feathers.

Arthur's instinctive reaction would be to throw something at the insolent intruder, but he's curious now. Arthur uses the high shelves to store away personal belongings – jewellery, personal or valuable gifts. The bottom compartment, however, contains a clutter of assorted things Arthur refuses to think of – like the apron Morgana made him wear once as a part of a lost bet, or the love poem he wrote at the age of fourteen, just because he could – or couldn't, as it turned out. The red and golden cloth belongs to... belongs to... it's _Merlin's hat_ , Arthur realises.

For once, the thought of Merlin doesn't hurt as much, doesn't burn him like a brand on his soul. He feels something different instead, bittersweet and a little disturbing, suspiciously like... fondness. 

The cat doesn't hear him coming, completely engrossed in whatever it is doing down there. Arthur edges closer and crouches down carefully, while the cat shimmies further inside the cupboard. 

“Are you aware that breaking into the crown prince's cupboard is a crime punishable by death?” Arthur asks, loudly, and the cat jerks and jumps and hisses, all claws and teeth and bristled fur. Fabric tears, the cat snarls and spits, gets free and runs off with a speed that's plain impressive, knocking over a water jug in the process, a red-dyed feather caught up between panicky twitching ears.

“Nosy bugger”, Arthur calls after it, laughing so hard it hurts. He can't remember having that much fun for... quite a while.

 

 **Protection**  
Oscar doesn't like the cat. “There's that flea-ridden mouser again,” he complains. “I've thrown him out at least a dozen times, but he keeps sneaking back in. Sometimes I think he knows a secret doorway to these rooms.” And: “I'll take care of it in a minute, sire”. 

From the way he frowns and scowls menacingly at the cat, Arthur guesses that whatever he intends to do won't be pleasant. Like putting it in a bag and drowning it like a spare May kitten.

“No,” Arthur quietly says. “Leave him alone.” _I want him here._

Since Oscar is a good servant, and wouldn't question Arthur's orders, let alone disobey him, the cat stays.

 

 **Dream**  
Arthur dreams about Merlin. It's not the usual kind of dream, where he's chasing Merlin through the forest, trying to catch him and hold on to him, until he gets lost and hears Merlin's laughter, cruel in a way Merlin himself could never be. 

Instead, he dreams of soft sighs and tangled limbs, the pleasure of two bodies joining, _fitting_. Moving with Merlin all around him, inside of him like he's engulfing Arthur completely. Shared breaths, touches filled with intent, so sweet, incredibly tender. 

He wakes, sweating and moaning, shifting restlessly in his bed, alone in the darkness. He feels the fever in his body, his limbs heavy with it, eyes hurting. His head pounds like it's going to burst at any moment. His whole body is on fire, but he can already feel the chill and shivers with cold sweat where moments ago, the fragmented dream filled him with heated desire.

 

 **Fever**  
Nothing dangerous, Gaius assures Uther, just a cold, not unusual at this time of the year, late winter, and Arthur will be all right again in no time, fit to regain his duties. 

Arthur wishes he would care. Involuntarily his eyes search out the cat, but it's nowhere to be seen. He buries his head in the pillows, trying to block out the distant voices, the impersonal touch where Gaius puts a cool, wet cloth on his calf.

Late at night, the fever broken, Arthur wakes. The first thing he sees are the cat's green eyes, round and wide open, close to his face. The cat has taken residence on his pillow as a compact bundle, lying with its paws folded up, drawn under its body.

The cat makes a tiny _miaow_ , eyes never leaving Arthur's. It's the first sound he has ever heard it make.

“As much as I appreciate the concern,” Arthur says slowly, sitting up and pulling the blankets tight around himself. “I hope you′re not getting any hair on my pillows.”

Clearly offended the cat miaows again, _rises_ from its place like a damsel offended by rudeness, and _retreats_. 

No translation needed, Arthur thinks, and considers throwing a blanket over its head, just because.

That's when the idea strikes, out of the blue. Arthur's jaw drops and he gapes at the cat with his mouth open.

 

 **Vertigo**  
Arthur dismisses the idea for the umpteenth time. It is just the fever which is responsible for his sudden urge to believe Merlin might have turned into a cat. 

Not even Merlin would do something so foolish, would he? What if he were found out? Who in his right mind would even want to do such a thing? 

Would it be possible at all? To become a cat, just like that, to live of mice and kitchen scraps and spend the biggest part of the day lazing around, avoiding getting kicked by one of the countless people who despise felines as a general rule? 

Arthur strides up and down his room, watching as the cat sleeps peacefully on top of the softest cushion of Arthur's armchair - which has acquired a fine layer of black hair in the last few weeks - and the shirt Arthur wore the day before yesterday. 

It's not possible, Arthur tells himself. 

“I'm getting insane,” he states vehemently, cursing himself, startling the cat awake from its slumber. It lifts its head and looks at him. Their gazes meet and lock. 

Arthur feels like someone's pulling a rug out under his feet, but he can't break the gaze, trying desperately to convince himself that he's the dumbest imbecile ever to consider the possibility. 

“Are you...” Arthur whispers, staring, heart hammering furiously in his chest. “Is it... is it you?”

The cat averts its eyes, developing a sudden, keen interest in gnawing at its paws. It's a frighteningly telling move, familiar, like a certain manservant who starts fervently scrubbing plates of already glossy armour, radiating an air of _Who, me?_ that screams _guilty_ at any attentive observer.

Arthur shakes his head. He's got to stop thinking like this, and fast.

 

 **Effort**  
“How powerful was he?”

“Don't ask me that, sire,” Gaius replies warily.

Arthur shakes his head. “How powerful was he? I need to know,” he says, and it's a plea rather than a demand.

Gaius stays silent for a long time. “It is like comparing you, trained a knight, born a fighter, to a child wielding a stick,” he says finally. “Compared to him, most sorcerers appear like children. They desperately try to gain a power that is beyond their capabilities, a power that he had at his disposal like it rightfully belonged to him, and only him.”

Arthur swallows and nods, trying to understand, wanting to, not sure he can.

 

 **Perspective**  
The cat appears to be black, without even the faintest hint of white that most cats hide at their paws or noses. When the sun shines down on it in a certain light and angle, Arthur can see it's in fact a dark, reddish brown and even, ever so slightly, striped. Its eyes are a common, yellowish green. 

It is lanky and - for a cat - not exactly graceful. It often tries to be stealthy and ends up knocking over goblets, vases and inkwells, whatever happens to stand on Arthur′s desk or the table, or the window-sill. It is ridiculously long-legged and skinny. The ears are normal-sized, as far as Arthur can tell, but he's never spent much time watching cats and wouldn't claim to be an expert on feline anatomy. Cats are more of a menace in Camelot, useful in a way, but lazy and greedy and impossible to get rid of. They firmly refuse to accept any kind of authority. 

Fitting, Arthur thinks, amused, and smirks a little. 

The cat's fur looks plush and shiny. Arthur bets it would be soft to the touch. 

Its favourite spot is the window-sill, where it rests, motionless, eyes narrowed down to the point that they appear to be closed. Carefully watching Arthur's every move, refusing to acknowledge his existence, and yet, at the same time... _caring_ , somehow. At least Arthur would like to think so. That someone still cares about him the way few people ever did.

 

 **Doubt**  
At times, Arthur questions his own sanity. There's no real reason to assume the cat is anything else than it appears to be.

If the cat is just a cat, talking to it doesn't do any harm. 

If the cat is just a cat, talking to it means Arthur is really just pathetic, desperately wanting it to be Merlin.

If Arthur really thought the cat was just a cat, he'd be able to tell it all the things he doesn't dare say out loud, like that he's missing Merlin, missing their bizarre conversations and their companionably shared meals, and the way Merlin used to look at him slyly, a smile tugging at his lips.

Arthur wonders what it would be like to taste that smile, how it would feel against his lips.

 

 **Diet**  
The cat becomes noisy. Opinionated, even, commenting on everything Arthur does with one of about two dozen different kinds of miaow. 

Arthur almost wishes it would have kept quiet after all.

Almost. 

“I'll have you know, I'm perfectly capable of being nice,” he says indignantly after Oscar's left the room, carrying a tray with the nearly untouched breakfast Arthur just told him to take home to his family.

The cat makes a noise, somewhere between a growl and a purr. Arthur's never heard a cat make a noise like that before, and he's quite sure he's just been snorted at. 

“That I have no intention to spoil _you_ doesn't mean I can't do something nice for someone else once in a while.”

_Miaow._

“You'd become unbearable if I started feeding you with milk and bacon,” Arthur says. “More so than usual, that is.” 

_Miaow. Miaow._

“No need to tell me that. You don't know what's good for you, anyway.”

The cat disagrees.

If anyone overheard their conversation, Arthur assumes they'd start doubting the crown prince's mental health, and justifiably so. 

 

 **Fear**  
Every couple of years, Arthur trains a horse himself, one of the precious destriers the royal stable breeds. In the beginning he chooses three of the young geldings, and decides after a week which one is most promising. Since they're _all_ very promising, he usually chooses the one that's easiest to work with, not that anyone needs to know that.

This year, he picks a huge chestnut stallion, the only one that hasn't been gelded. He wants a challenge, and the stallion gives him that. He fights Arthur on every step of the long way it takes to train a good warhorse. Temperamental, stubborn, clever: the stallion is everything Arthur likes in a horse. 

Every morning Arthur gets up before dawn to be the first on the training ground, working for an hour in blessed peace before the daily bustle sets in. 

The day is windy, air invigorating and pure, moist with the remnants of the night's rainfall. Spring has already come to Camelot, early flowers covering the meadows, trees preparing to sprout any day. 

Arthur works with the stallion for a while, concentrating on it, trying to build the connection that develops between a rider and a horse if both of them are really focused, willing to listen to each other. On some days, the stallion already gets it right. Today, as it turns out, isn't one of these. 

Frustrated, Arthur dismounts to fetch a leash. Sometimes it helps to lunge for a while, the stallion listening to his commands more closely then, less easily distracted. 

The cat sits on a fence post, cleaning its own front paws and ears. It spent the night on Arthur's armchair, blinking at him as he got up and pulled on his riding gear, eyes telling a clear message. _Are you daft?_ . He didn't expect it to follow him, but it did, for whatever reason. Arthur ignores it. He always does, in public. He doesn't want to draw people's attention to it. 

Arthur returns with the lunge and starts to fasten it to the bridle. The cat jumps down from the post, trotting towards the stable. 

The stable door opens. One of the grooms emerges, yawning loudly, and a small dog runs past him, heading directly for the training ground. 

It happens so fast, Arthur can do nothing but watch, horrified, as the dog barks excitedly, charging at the cat. The cat jumps aside, trying to reach the fence post with a desperate leap. That's when the stallion baulks at the sudden movement and the dog's hysterical yapping, jumps aside and kicks out wildly, hitting the cat mid-leap with its front hoof. The cat is slung through the air like a stone, hitting the fence and falling to the ground, motionless.

 _No. No. Gods, no._ Arthur moves without thinking, pushing the stallion away, picking up the tiny, warm body with trembling hands. He backs away from the stallion that still rears up while the dog is barking like mad. The groom finally gets a grip on the dog's collar and pulls it back inside.

In safe distance, Arthur sits down on the muddy soil, holding the cat in his lap. He puts a hand on its chest, feeling for a heartbeat, for a breath. “Please,” he whispers, trying to say, _stay alive, don't die. I don't care if you stay a cat forever, just don't leave me_. The fur is so soft, softer than he's ever imagined. The cat lies still, tail hanging down limply, like a rag doll in Arthur's hands.

Arthur can't bear it. He cradles the cat in his arms, gasping when the realisation hits. _No_ , he begs wordlessly over and over again. _No. No, Merlin. No._

That's when the cat starts to move, weakly at first, so that it takes a while for him to notice, then more and more strongly. Sharp claws dig in the skin of his forearms, piercing the linen shirt, legs start to kick with vigour. The cat struggles against his hold, and Arthur, head spinning, stupidly says, “Easy there, it's me, I've got you, it's all right.”

Just like that, the cat stops fighting and snuggles up to him instead, completely unexpected, fitting in Arthur's arms just right, warm and pliant. It's bliss, being allowed to touch after all these months. Arthur blinks, eyes watery, not daring to move.

Of course, that's when the cat decides that enough is enough, and starts trying to get away again, hissing and complaining with furious mewls as Arthur fails to oblige in time.

Arthur lets go of it, finally. 

Late at night, the cat slips under his blankets, sneakily waiting until he's almost asleep to do so. The thick, sleek fur is even softer now under Arthur's hands. The cat settles in, curled up against his side. 

Arthur sighs and falls asleep between one breath and the next.

In the morning, the cat is gone, and he doesn't see it again for a while. 

 

 **Return**  
Arthur returns to Camelot alone, just before noon. The guards throw a look at his face, prudently deciding not to ask him a single question. He hands Llamrei's reigns over to a stable hand and walks straight into the Great Hall where his father is holding court.

He doesn't know what he's going to do or say until he's standing right in front of his father. People appear to be afraid of him, a look that's not usually aimed at Arthur, but he guesses that today they have every reason for their fear. He feels out of control, like he might snap at any moment, and he doesn't know what will happen if he does. It will be violent, of that he is sure, and obviously the people at court realise it, too.

His father impatiently waits for him to explain the interruption and the late return.

“I beg forgiveness for the delay, milord,” Arthur says shortly. “I know it's inexcusable. There's a reason for it, though.”

He takes the bag he's carrying and drops it in front of the throne. It falls open, spreading ashes all over the polished floor - ashes and tiny pieces of bone and molten, deformed metal. 

 

 **Rumour**  
It all starts with a conversation Arthur overhears by accident. He is strolling along a narrow corridor that leads towards the stable, taking a shortcut because he is already late for training and because he wants to avoid the delegation from Brittany, whose members repeatedly tried to buy his favour with expensive gifts. They want him to intervene in their negotiations with his father, not aware of the fact that Arthur's chances to change his father's opinion, once it's set, are flimsy at best, and non-existent in cases like these, where his father already detests their guests with a vengeance. Arthur does, too: the nobles accompanying the prince (only a third son, the Brittany didn't even send the crown prince, which is an insult in itself) are arrogant, dainty and rather simple-minded. 

Since the prince's attendants started ambushing Arthur wherever he goes only to make really obvious attempts to convince him to speak in their favour, insulting his intelligence and testing his patience all at once, Arthur now avoids them at all costs.

If only he could call them on their dishonourable behaviour, but on his father's direct orders, Arthur isn't allowed to challenge any of them. So he's doomed to sneaking around in his own castle as if he were a common thief or worse, a disobedient child. 

Arthur takes the stairs to the ground floor, turning left into another hallway only to stop dead when he spots two servant girls, one of them part of the delegation's entourage, the other, whose name Arthur can't quite recall at the moment although he really ought to, one of the castle's many chamber maids. He cautiously inches back until he's out of their line of sight, inwardly cursing his bad luck. 

Arthur sighs as one of the maids giggles and takes a deep breath, sitting down on the stairs. He's not really listening to their conversation, hoping they will finish soon so he can pass. It's only when a familiar name is mentioned that Arthur pricks up his ears. 

“...that boy, Merlin?”

“Yes, well, there's no use in trying to make him do something like that.”

Arthur finally recognises the voice. It's Alanna, one of the servants who sometimes cleans his rooms when Merlin is unavailable or busy with other duties, like serving as a source of Arthur's amusement on the training ground.

“I don't understand,” the other girl says, sounding offended. “It's not as if I propositioned anything... improper. I only wanted him to take a letter to the prince.” 

“You wouldn't believe how many people already tried that,” Alanna says dryly. “Women, mostly, who are enamoured of prince. Merlin won't take their letters, or their flowers, not even if they offer him money.”

“Really? But why? I mean, it's not as if there's something bad about letters or flowers, is there?”

“No, but the poor boy is jealous. He's in love with the prince himself.”

Arthur gasps. That's really not what he expected to hear; the very idea is utterly absurd. 

“Really?” Alanna's new friend asks, drawing out the syllables. “But surely the prince wouldn't -”

“No, no,” Alanna hastens to reply. “Of course, not, Prince Arthur isn't inclined like that.”

“But why does he keep the boy around?”

“I don't think he knows,” Alanna says, thoughtfully. “Merlin saved his life more than once. I think Prince Arthur feels like he still owes him a debt.”

“But he's the _prince_. I mean, shouldn't someone tell him? If his manservant is a lover of men, people might think...”

Alanna laughs. “You've never seen the way the prince talks to him, have you? No one could mistake them for lovers, with the prince calling him names all the time and giving him ridiculous tasks just to torment him. Merlin isn't even sleeping in his chambers, like a regular manservant should.”

She clears her throat and softens her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Personally, I think it's good for the prince to have someone he can trust. Merlin, on the other hand... The prince ought to be a little more lenient at times. He's working hard, always trying his best, although he's been raised in a tiny village across the border, where they don't know how to behave properly towards their noblemen, if they have any that deserve the name. Poor Merlin spent more days in the stocks when he came to Camelot than he did fulfilling his duties.”

There's a disapproving note in the other maid's voice. “It's not natural, for a man to want... to do _that_.”

Alanna doesn't reply, other than with a noncommittal _hmm_ which Arthur imagines might be accompanied by a casual shrug.

“I don't understand,” the other maid insists, curious in a slightly malevolent way. “Surely the prince wouldn't want his servant to see him undressed while attending to his... more intimate duties.”

Alanna sounds a little affronted. “Merlin is a good boy. He'd never take advantage of his privileges like that. And it's not as if Prince Arthur weren't capable to take care of himself.”

“The lords and ladies _I_ serve wouldn't tolerate this kind of scandalous behaviour,” the girl says, disapproval apparent in every syllable. 

A door opens somewhere, and Alanna hastily says, “I have to go. You might want to try giving Lady Elaine the letter, she's especially close to the prince.” 

Arthur wants to laugh out loud at that. Lady Elaine, who is roughly ninety years old, only remembers his name on good days. She still calls Uther 'dear boy' on the rare occasions she appears at court. It seems Alanna can be quite vicious in her defence of Merlin. Arthur makes a mental note not to cross her. Maybe he should even give Merlin a day off, just to prove the lenience she wants him to exercise. 

 

 **Preference**  
The very idea is preposterous. Arthur would laugh about it if he didn't know how the rumour mill works. If even Alanna, who should really know better, thinks that Merlin is in love with him, she's sure as next winter's snow not the only one, and others might not be as understanding. 

If his father hears about it, it will be difficult to plausibly explain the rumours are wrong. Arthur never actually had a male lover, but there were a few fellow squires in his youth he was closer to than strictly advisable and his father had a watchful and disapproving eye on him then. 

He still remembers _the talk_ his father gave him as he was twelve years old, using phrases that, ten years later, still make Arthur cringe. 'Matters of the heart' are something he wishes not to discuss with his father, ever, as are 'youthful errors', 'temptations of the flesh', and 'a man's needs'. Arthur also got to hear a list of various behaviours his father wouldn't in any way tolerate, such as fathering illegitimate children, getting married out of love, and engaging in sodomy. As if that hadn't been bad enough already, his father then sent him to Gaius, who gave him a speech about the diseases a young man could catch visiting brothels or sleeping with sheep. 

After that, Arthur had thoroughly lost any inclination to even look at girls, and that didn't change much as time went on. 

It helps that he, as a matter of fact, doesn't find women very alluring. Many of them are pretty, beautiful even, but his appreciation always holds something like a purely aesthetic quality.

Men are different, but Arthur never dared to go there, with good reason. He's aware that his knights sometimes share their beds with each other, or with their squires, and he knows the stable boys aren't averse to a quick tumble in the hay. He isn't _that_ innocent. But he's the crown prince, and Arthur intends to fulfil his duty to the kingdom, no matter what. He refuses to permit the thought he might prefer men. It's not an option, in any case.

The problem is, if people start to believe his manservant is in love with him, it's only a matter of time until his father tries to get rid of Merlin to make sure Arthur's reputation isn't tarnished. Arthur needs to be prepared to rebut any charges, any arguments. 

The truth might be the best weapon he has. Merlin, in love with him? His idiot manservant, who never shows him any respect? Merlin, who calls him a prat at least once a day – twice, on holidays - secretly mooning over him like the girl Arthur always accuses him to be? A ridiculous notion indeed.

 

 **Regret**  
“I wish you were here,” he says, looking at the cat, fingers clenching in the blanket. “I wish I could tell you... tell you I'm sorry.”

It's not very often that Arthur has to say these words. He apologises to his father, of course, and once or twice his father made him apologise to Morgana, too, but usually he chooses deeds rather than words to express his feelings. Arthur's not good at saying sorry. He's not good at admitting his own flaws and weaknesses, either.

“You weren't to blame,” he says, feeling, for a short moment, awkward and embarrassed. His voice wavers, he can't control it. “You're not to blame. I'm sorry I didn't see it then. I get it now. I guess it's too late, but I wanted to say it anyway.”

The cat doesn't answer. Not that Arthur expected it to - it never does, it only ever listens. 

He closes his eyes. He's exhausted, lonely, and feeling a little sorry for himself. He needs to sleep, but he can't, not right away. 

Something nudges at his hand, the one still resting on top of the blanket. Arthur opens his eyes. The cat is right in front of him, closer than ever before. 

He knows better than to try to touch it now. 

“Hello,” he whispers instead and smiles, just a little bit, and closes his eyes again. He goes to sleep with the sound of soft purring in his ear. 

 

 **Hope**  
Gwen happens to walk by as Arthur trains his knights on a nice, clear day in early May. The cat lies on a bench and takes a nap in the late morning sun, seemingly uninterested in the procedures, as usual.

Gwen stops to talk to Sir Ulfrec for a moment, who is currently taking an extended break, something Arthur grants the elder knights as opposed to the younger ones. With Morgana gone, Gwen has been assigned new duties and now tends to the needs of Sir Ulfrec's wife, Lady Delia. 

Arthur walks across the lawn, joining them. Gwen bows to him and doesn't lift her head afterwards to look him in the eye like she used to _before_.

“Guinevere,” he acknowledges her presence with the raise of an eyebrow. “I hope you're doing well?”

Sir Ulfrec makes a strategic retreat to the training ground. 

“Very well, milord, thank you,” Gwen says with silent dignity.

The cat lifts its head, looking at them. Arthur ignores it, chest tight, hands clenching and unclenching involuntarily. 

“It's a nice day,” he states, cursing himself the moment the words leave his mouth. 

“Quite,” Gwen murmurs, and since he can't see her face, it's impossible to tell whether she's amused or embarrassed. 

Arthur hasn't felt this awkward since the first time they kissed so many months ago.

The cat suddenly gets up and stretches, miaows and jumps down from the bench. It walks towards them and sits down right in front of Gwen, then starts nibbling at the base of its tail idly, as if there were nothing more important in the world than doing just that, right there and then.

“Oh,” Gwen breathes, smiling softly at it. “There you are, darling.” 

Her eyes dart to Arthur immediately afterwards, blushing a little. “Forgive me, milord. It's just, he keeps me company sometimes in the afternoon when I mend milady's robes. But I haven't seen him around here before.”

Arthur′s first, visceral reaction is jealousy, so profound it shakes him to the core. The cat is _his_ , what business does Gwen have talking to it, looking at it so fondly?

Arthur hopes his face doesn't give away his feelings and tries his hardest to maintain his court-schooled, controlled expression. He can't let his anger show. A few moments pass by and Arthur thinks that, of course, Gwen is kind and beautiful, why wouldn't Merlin prefer her presence to Arthur's? Why wouldn't Merlin want to spend time with Gwen, who's been his friend from the first day in Camelot, unlike Arthur? Gwen is sweet and sincere and affectionate - unlike Arthur himself, who's never learned to show his feelings in a way that isn't awkward or forced, or implies the assignment of chores accompanied by fond insults.

Slowly, however, there's another emotion overriding his sudden dislike of Gwen, once he realises what the unexpected revelation means: relief, bone-deep, very nearly making him giddy, making him want to laugh aloud. 

Because there is no way it's a mere coincidence the cat chooses to spend its time with the two people Merlin has been closest to in Camelot, two people who rarely see each other in every-day life. Now that Arthur's thinking about it, he wouldn't be surprised if the cat also showed up at Gaius' workshop now and then, sneaking around and watching the old physician closely to make sure he's all right, and maybe to keep him a little company, too. 

It means that Arthur hasn't been imagining things. It means _the cat really is Merlin_ , and Arthur exhales and feels a weight drop from his shoulders. 

It doesn't mean he's forgiven.

It means, though, that maybe he's got a second chance. 

 

 **Lies**  
“I killed him,” Arthur says, holding his father's gaze steadily, displaying a calm he doesn't feel and a fury he does. “I killed him with my own blade, and I burnt the body. It was my right to do it. He was my servant, my responsibility. He lied to me, he lived in Camelot for two years, practising sorcery. The nature of his crime earned him death, but he saved my life more than once and for that, I showed him mercy by delivering the death sentence with a clean blow. I burnt his body to make sure that no magical trickery will ever bring him back, like you taught me to, milord.” 

Arthur bows to his father. He's never been so aware of people looking at him, a hundred pairs of eyes following his every move. 

“I showed him mercy, but even apart from that, it would have been too dangerous to try to take him back to Camelot. My inept manservant proved to be a rather powerful sorcerer.” The irony is cold, dark and full of hatred. Arthur makes sure everybody hears it in his voice. 

“Let me repeat this,” Uther says slowly, face stony. “This inept servant of yours...”

“The very servant you gave to me, father, because he saved my life.”

“...turned out to be a sorcerer.”

“Yes, milord.”

The court is deadly silent.

 

 **Treason**  
It's no surprise that his father demands a conversation under four eyes. 

Uther paces the room in short, restless strides. Arthur stands at a window, motionless with his arms hanging down, waiting for him to say anything. 

Finall, his father comes to a halt. “I understand that you are furious.”

Arthur lets out a laugh. “Believe me, that's an understatement.”

“This is what magic does,” his father says. “Deception and betrayal.”

“I know.”

A hand comes down on his shoulder. “For what it is worth, I am proud of you. You did well. I know that it hurts to be deceived by someone you trusted. He was only a servant, but he was close to you. I know that. You let him close, and that's not a mistake you will make again.”

“You trusted too lightly, but it wasn't your fault, it was mine. It was me who got blinded by his trickery in the first place and made him your manservant. Accept my apologies, Arthur, and believe me, I will always hold myself responsible for that.”

Arthur stiffens under his father's touch and makes himself endure it when everything he wants is to flinch away from the unwelcome comfort. He wants to punch the wall with his bare hands. He wants to shout at his father, at anyone, everyone.

“You're not at fault,” he says blankly.

Uther doesn't reply. He lets his hand drop and turns around to pour himself a glass of wine. He lifts the jug to indicate he'd fill a glass for Arthur, too, but Arthur shakes his head mutely. He'd only crush the fragile glass between his fingers, hands not able to unclench, like it's been for hours.

“You should have brought him back here,” Uther says. “Your wish to punish him personally is perfectly understandable, but...”

“It was too dangerous to attempt bringing him back,” Arthur interrupts. “I couldn't risk him getting away. With a company of knights, I would have tried, but - ”

His father raises his eyebrows. “Do you think that Gaius...”

Arthur has no reason to protect Gaius, not after all the lies he's been told. His father wants to turn a blind eye towards Gaius, as usual, but a single word of Arthur would suffice to condemn him at this point.

He shrugs. “I don't think he knew what Merlin was up to,” he says. “I think Merlin misled him, too.” 

 

 **Fury**  
“Sire -”

Arthur turns around on his heels. “Be quiet!” he hisses at the person following him.

“Sire...”

“No,” Arthur says, barely recognising his own voice. “No. You will never, ever address me in this fashion, and on this matter, again, and if you dare so much as mention his name, I will have you burnt alive at the stake. Am I making myself clear?”

Gaius stares at him. He looks like he has aged twenty years in one night. He looks like death, pale and terrified. He has never been one to cower before Arthur, but now he averts his gaze. Arthur smiles with grim satisfaction. 

But then Gaius takes a deep breath. “If what you told the court is true, my life is forfeit anyway,” Gaius replies. “Your father – he will -”

“Merlin is dead,” Arthur says, emphasising every single word. “I killed him. That's everything you need to know. That's everything everyone will ever know.”

He doesn't wait for Gaius' reaction, only turns and walks away without looking back. 

 

 **Venom**  
He's not naive enough to believe Gaius didn't know. To assume Gaius is innocent in this, hasn't known about Merlin's magic all along.

If Arthur wants answers, Gaius is the only one who might be able to give them to him. Arthur is aware of that fact. He also knows he can't let Gaius see the dark, vengeful part of his soul that still wants to rant and to threaten, the cold fury and the helpless, hot embarrassment he feels whenever he remembers the day in the forest. 

He can't tell Gaius what happened, and he doesn't want to. 

He holds Gaius′ gaze at councils, during meals, a calm and steady gaze, trying to conceal the anger, the pain, knowing he can't avoid talking to him forever. Gaius needs to learn what happened to Merlin, just like Arthur needs to learn what Merlin concealed from him.

 

 **Truth**  
“I didn't kill him,” Arthur hears himself say. He doesn't intend to, the words simply come out as if somebody else took control of his vocal cords. He swallows, staring at them, avoiding to directly look into their astonished eyes. 

He has been watching them for a while, sitting next to each other at a table in Gaius' workshop, Gwen crushing berries in a mortar while Gaius reads instructions to her from an old, enormous tome. Talking to each other amiably, comfortable in each other's presence. 

Not long ago, Arthur would have counted the two of them among his closest friends. 

He knows Gwen tried to help Gaius as often as her other duties allowed it, even before Merlin came to Camelot. He didn't realise they were so close to each other, though, working together with the familiarity that only a true friendship brings. 

They don't see Arthur standing in the doorway, busy with whichever salve or draught they're brewing. 

“That's enough,” Gaius says. “You can stir them in into the cauldron now.” He closes the book. “We need the other ingredients. Merl- ” He stops, mid-sentence. 

Gwen lifts her head and smiles sadly at him. 

Gaius gets up and mutters “I am going to get the bracken seeds,” with a husky voice.

That's when Arthur tells them, without meaning to, because he can't _not_. 

 

 **Insight**  
“You know he can't come back,” is what Arthur tells Gaius. “Even if he wanted to. Not while my father... not as long as my father is still alive.”

Gaius nods gravely. “I know.”

“He wouldn't want to anyway,” Arthur says. “He wouldn't. He said he'd never come back.”

“I think it would depend,” Gaius says, cautiously, looking at Arthur with his knowing, measuring eyes, “On whether he would be welcome here at all.”

“No. I mean, it's not just that, it's - it would take more than that.”

“I believe you might be right,” Gaius replies. “But that's a question only you can answer, sire.”

 

 **Reserve**  
Arthur didn't tell them what happened between him and Merlin in the forest. He only told them that Merlin got away unharmed, and that Arthur bid him never to return. Told them, too, how he shot down a deer the next day and burnt it, throwing in a few buttons of his tunic, and a piece of red cloth from his saddle bag. 

That he did it to delude his father, so he wouldn't make him hunt Merlin down and Arthur wouldn't have to think about him ever again.

Arthur didn't tell them he can't sleep properly ever since, or that he regrets nothing, nothing more than what he said and did to Merlin. He hasn't told them Alanna was right about Merlin, and wrong about Arthur. 

He didn't tell them he believes that Merlin may be back, in a way at least, as a stray cat living in Arthur's quarters. A cat that watches Gwen sew and sneaks into the throne room to eavesdrop on the king's private council.

He's afraid they'll think he's gone crazy. He's afraid they won't believe him. He's afraid they might. 

What if all the random evidence the cat leaves in its wake is just that, random? What if Arthur is only imagining things? He's so sure at times. At others, the doubt starts creeping back in, and nothing is as easy as it seemed mere hours, minutes ago.

 

 **Pretence**  
Lady Arianne is incredibly pretty, fair-skinned and blonde, with soft brown eyes under long, pale lashes. Arthur offers her his arm, and she puts her tiny hand on top of it so he can lead her to the dinner table. As the eldest daughter of King Ian, she'll be a match his father might consider, if Arthur insisted on it. They don't really need the alliance with Ian, but it doesn't hurt to have useful friends who are enemies of the Mercians, too. 

Arthur listens to her making conversation, trivial and entertaining, while she gives away nothing more personal than her favourite colour - Pendragon red, as it turns out. Arthur winces at that. Sometimes he adds a remark to let her know her efforts are appreciated. Compliments her, repeatedly, on her beauty, her wonderful dress, the pink roses adorning her lovely hair. Dances with her, leads her to the balcony, offers to show her the gardens tomorrow. Accompanies her to her room, where she reveals to him that no, she is no pure maiden, she knows how to please a man, and yes, she would like him to spend the night with her. It's quite a surprise, actually.

In cases like these, Arthur knows even the strict rules his father laid down don't apply. Experienced women who know to be discreet – they are different.

Nobody expects him to be a monk. He's been with women before.

His first girl, the first person to ever touch him intimately, Elfie, a milkmaid. Her hand on him behind the barn. Between the prospect of getting caught and his own embarrassment, Arthur could hardly get aroused at first, caught between awkwardness and sheer terror. He was fifteen at the time, so it didn't take much to overcome his anxiety, and after that, it didn't take long at all. He didn't reciprocate, not knowing how to anyway – but she didn't seem to mind, giggling the whole time between sloppy, too-wet kisses, and wiped her hand on a tuft of hay afterwards while Arthur awkwardly tugged up his breeches. 

Brighid, Sir Ryan's sister, widowed at the age of seventeen. Arthur liked her a lot, she was one of Morgana's friends, stubborn and funny and smart enough to stand up to her and Arthur alike. With Brighid, Arthur lost his virginity for real. They slept together a few times, but it didn't turn out too well in the long term. She taught him a few things about women, their bodies and needs, yet the most important lesson he drew from it was that he didn't care a lot about either of those, unfortunately. His lack of enthusiasm was the reason Brighid broke it off with him, and a few months later she married one of her brother's mates and moved to a northern border fortress.

Since then, Arthur avoids getting intimate with girls. He doesn't approach them, encourage their attentions, or give them reason to think he might be interested. If they keep insisting, he blatantly ignores them, or avoids their presence altogether. Only very few of them try to seduce him as bluntly as Lady Arianne. 

Arthur only hesitates for a minute before accepting her offer with a kiss. It's not as if he has any obligation towards Gwen or somebody else, is it?

Lips curving under his, Lady Arianne smiles, lifts her arms to lock them around his neck, leg winding around his hips until he has no choice but to lift her up and carry her inside her room. 

Afterwards, Arthur thinks it didn't go too badly. Lady Arianne isn't impressed by his performance, though. It's not as if she impressed him, either. She is... petite, blonde. Female.

Arthur returns to his chamber, closes the door and leans against it with his back, shoulders sinking down. He breathes in cool air and emptiness. 

The room is utterly silent, dark and solitary. It's never felt like a prison before. 

 

 **Disclosure**  
Watching Merlin stoke the camp fire, Arthur rests comfortably with his back against the tree, enjoying a moment of righteously earned idleness. Satisfied with his prey, a pheasant and a hare, both killed by a clean, well-aimed shot, Arthur patiently waits for Merlin to gut them and prepare a meal. It's not enough meat to take back to Camelot, but it will make a luxurious dinner for two. 

They set up their camp on a clearing, right next to a little river, and it's a lovely warm late summer evening, warm enough to sleep under the open sky. Arthur feels relaxed and content. His mood is oddly wistful. There are far too few evenings like these, where he can get away from his princely duties and just let go. 

Merlin putters around with the spit and the wood he's managed to collect while Arthur went for food, and a delicious smell soon starts to permeate throughout the spicy sylvan air. 

Arthur's eyes are half-closed and he hums to himself. The only thing that will make the evening even better is needling Merlin. Just a little.

“I know your secret,” he lets Merlin know without bothering to look at him, and smiles. He expects a 'What are you talking about?' or maybe a distracted 'Hmm?'

Instead, it is uncommonly silent all of a sudden. 

Arthur opens his eyes to make sure Merlin's still there and hasn't deserted him in the middle of dinner preparation. Merlin is kneeling in front of the fire, staring at Arthur like a deer caught in torch light. He nervously licks his lips before asking oddly: “Which secret?”

Arthur finds the question amusing. As if Merlin was able to keep anything from him. “The big, ominous secret you've been hiding from me all these years,” he says, knowing his glee is an audible quality. “I didn't know before, but Alanna saw right through you.”

“Alanna?” Merlin asks confusedly. “Alanna, the maid?”

“Alanna. Who's doing your chores on a regular basis, Merlin. One should think you'd know who she is.”

“What did she – what did she say?” Merlin asks, and it's only then that Arthur realises something is off. Merlin hasn't moved yet, and he's gazing at Arthur without a smile, frown of worry on his face. He looks like he'll start running in a minute.

 _Oh gods, it's true,_ Arthur thinks. _He really is in love with me._ He can't say or do anything, just stare at Merlin, incredulous, as his world is turned upside down. 

“How... how did she know?” Merlin whispers.

“Honestly, Merlin, you should try to be a little less obvious. Everyone in the castle knows.” Arthur's heart starts beating faster. He hardly knows what he's saying, too busy figuring out how to react, how to feel.

“Everyone?” Merlin asks, clearly terrified. “If everyone knows – why am I still alive?”

“Alive?” Arthur echoes. “Really, Merlin it's not as if it were punishable by death.”

“But -” Merlin interrupts himself, mouth opening and closing a few times. “Your – your father?”

“What about my father?” Arthur gets a little impatient. “I don't assume he knows. Even if...”

“You wouldn't tell him?” Merlin queries, eyes wide and blue, startled.

“Why would I do that? It has nothing to do with him. Even so, what do you think he might do?”

“I don't know,” Merlin shoots back, sarcasm doing a poor job of hiding his exasperation. “Forgive me for assuming he might react a little less than delighted. Because, of course, it's not as if he's been burning people like me at the stake for the last twenty years!”

“Burning at the stake?” Arthur repeats, weakly. “For being in love with the crown prince? Merlin, not even my father...” that's when the truth hits. Hits, deeply, like a death blow, crushing faith and trust and friendship and any illusions Arthur had. 

Merlin is not in love with him, and the knowledge leaves him cold and hollow like an empty shell. 

Merlin is a _sorcerer_ , a traitor, and only the gods know what his intentions are, what goal he has staying in Camelot, gaining Arthur's trust, making him believe - 

Arthur doesn't know how he got to his feet. He's facing Merlin, pulling him up with a brutal grip to his forearm while his other hand presses the blade to his throat, breaking the skin and drawing blood. “Sorcerer!” Arthur spits, furious to the point where he can't think anymore, let alone think clearly. 

Merlin tries to get away from him, eyes full of fear, wounded, as if it's Arthur who wronged him, not the other way round. 

“Traitor! How dare you? How dare you do this to me? To _me?_ ” 

Merlin backs away, using all the simple manoeuvres Arthur taught him for self-defence, so that under different circumstances, Arthur might be proud of him. It only raises his ire now. He lifts his blade, making Merlin flinch and almost trip over a rock – until Merlin's with his back against another tree. Arthur acts on well-honed instinct, strikes out and aims for Merlin's chest, not hesitating, meaning to kill.

That's when Merlin's eyes flash gold, and the sword is wrenched from Arthur's fist, tossed aside as though it were weightless, and he's bound by ropes of magic, tying him in place, immobile. 

“So now you're showing your true face?” Arthur hisses, fighting against the hold. “You cheating, lying bastard, you -”

Merlin's flinches as if struck by a whip. His whole demeanour changes, from despair to fierce determination. Back straight, he takes a step towards Arthur, looking him dead in the eye.

“Listen to me,” Merlin says quietly but forcefully, and Arthur stops struggling and stares at him, wants to hurt him so badly. 

“Listen to me, Arthur Pendragon. I've been doing magic my whole life. My whole life, and until I met you, I never used it to hurt anyone. As your servant, I used it to kill your enemies, to protect you and Camelot. I saved your life so many times I lost count the first year in your service. I almost died for you, there's nothing I wouldn't do for you. I kept my magic secret because I learned my lesson the first day I came to Camelot and saw a a sorcerer burn at the stake.”

“You lied to me,” Arthur snarls, unable to listen. “You lied to me for _three years_. My father is right, one can't trust a sorcerer, you're all the same, a pack of filthy liars...”

“I lied to you”, Merlin admits. “But I never betrayed you, Arthur. Never.”

“Don't call me that,” Arthur demands, mad with rage. “Do not call me that ever again. I'm not your friend, Merlin. I don't want to be associated with the likes of you. You're a dirty, rotten spellcaster. If you were an honourable man, you'd kill yourself before you used magic!”

Merlin's face crumples. He averts his gaze for a moment, and when he looks at Arthur again, his expression is unreadable. “I'm sorry,” he says. “I'm sorry for lying to you. You can still trust me, don't you see that? I could kill you easily enough right now, but -”

“Do it, then,” Arthur says. “Do it, because if you don't, I'm going to kill you, as soon as I can, as soon as I'm free of your dark magic.”

“I won't,” Merlin says wearily, resigned. “But I'm not going to let you kill me, either. I never wanted it to end this way, I swear – Alanna was right, do you know that? - Doesn't matter. Don't try to find me. Don't try to follow me. Don't waste your time lurking around Ealdor. I won't go back there. Leave my mother alone. If you dare so much as think of -”

Arthur stares at him, realising it is Merlin greatest fear, and that even now, Arthur couldn't hurt Hunith just because he wants to hurt Merlin and can't.

“You'll never see me again,” Merlin says. “If that's what you want.”

“If you ever show your face in Camelot again, I'll set the pyre alight myself,” Arthur assures him with cold fury, and Merlin nods as if he expected his words. 

“If you ever set foot beyond the border again -”

Merlin closes his eyes briefly. He turns around then without another word and walks away, not bothering to take anything with him, not his horse, not even his gear. He simply walks into the woods, and Arthur stares at his back, disappearing among pine trees and cedars.

Merlin's gone.

Arthur closes his eyes. 

It takes about an hour for the magic to fade. Finally, Arthur can move again and sits down on the ground for a minute, hands shaking. He goes to pick up his sword, and his fingers close around the hilt with grim determination. 

_It's over_ , he thinks. It's over, and he'll never trust anyone again. Not like that. It hurts too much.

 

 **Initiation**  
The first time Arthur sees the cat – really notices it – he's just coming back to his rooms from a meeting with his father's council. The cat sits on a window-sill next to the doorway, and when Arthur opens the door to his room, it suddenly jumps down and darts inside.

Arthur has a hard time trying to find it. At last, he spots it under the desk. It hisses at him angrily when he tries to shoo it out. 

Arthur just shrugs and ignores it for the time being. Cats don't usually stay long, even if they accidentally find their way to his room once in a while. They probably realise they're not welcome here.

Cats are a necessary evil. As long as they're decimating the mice population, people tolerate them. It doesn't mean they like them. The only ones who are allowed to show their fondness of cats – or kittens, as the case may be - are children, naturally, since children and small animals are akin somehow. 

Arthur never had a kitten. He has dogs - loyal, carefully-bred, long-legged hunting dogs who reside in the kennel. He likes them; he doesn't like cats. They don't obey his commands, they go wherever they want, they are independent, insidious and ineducable.

This one turns out to be an astonishingly persistent house guest. Initially it only happens to drop by every few days, not long enough for Arthur to complain or take measures against it. He gets used to it, expecting it to be there, irritated when it isn't. It's only when it stays away for a several days that he realises it's been virtually living in his quarters for weeks.

 

 **Conclusion**  
Arthur lies on his side. The cat rests peacefully next to him, still keeping its distance, two or three carefully-guarded inches. 

Arthur sighs. He's so tired, too tired to keep up the pretence. Too tired to be anything but Arthur, right now. Anxious and lonely, two words he'd never thought might apply to him. Now, however, they do.

He closes his eyes to keep himself from reaching out, closing the distance between them. 

He isn't allowed to. 

He swallows around the lump in his throat, aching. “I miss you,” he says, voice hoarse, but Merlin already knows that.

“I wish you were here,” and that's nothing new either, he's told the cat before.

“I'm sorry,” he continues.

I'm lost without you, he thinks, and, I don't want to be without you. But that's still about him, his wants and needs, and he needs to make clear that this is about Merlin.

“You're so brave. You're the bravest man I've ever met. Gaius told me what you did, and Lancelot. I don't know how you dealt with all of it by yourself. I'm sorry about your father. I'm sorry about Will, and about this girl, Freya. I wish you'd told me. But I accept why you couldn't. I proved you right, didn't I? I mean, I reacted just the way you were afraid I would. I can't blame you for not wanting to come back. If I were you, I wouldn't, either.”

Arthur takes a deep breath and prepares to go on. He always finishes what he's started, but it's so, so hard. “If you came back, I'd make it up to you. If you came back, even if you chose not to be my friend anymore, or my servant, I swear I'd make you never regret it. I'd do anything... anything. I'd give you all that you wanted, all that I have. Merlin, Camelot needs you.”

But that's only half of the truth, and Arthur makes himself says the rest, too, the thing he's never dared to voice in his head, let alone say out loud. “I need you, too. I want you, so much. Please, come back to me.”

Arthur doesn't expect anything to happen, doesn't expect the cat to even give a sign of acknowledgement. It takes him by surprise when he senses some kind of movement and the mattress suddenly dips with the weight of someone much bigger than a cat, and there's the rustle of sheets and the sound of breathing, slower now and heavier.

Eyes still closed, Arthur gasps a little and reaches out, gropes blindly, not daring to believe his own ears, his own nose as it takes in a long-missed, familiar smell of wool, herbs and fir; not daring to believe this is truly happening. 

And then he's in Merlin's arms, and Merlin's in his, and Arthur takes a deep breath that's almost a sob, and hears Merlin voice, wavering. “You prat,” Merlin mutters. “You utter, stubborn prat.” 

When their lips meet, it's new and familiar and terrifying, sweet and desperate at once, like nothing Arthur has ever felt before. 

“I missed you, too,” Merlin says and all Arthur can do is hold on to him, melt into his arms and cling, hands roaming, skin warm and human beneath his touch, mouth pressing to an angular collarbone and tasting, tasting the same scent he inhales with every shaky breath and, even more intoxicating than that, the warmth and smoothness beneath. 

“How could you do that to me? I almost didn't come back. I almost never came back,” Merlin whispers, and his words sting, make Arthur hold his breath, deeply ashamed. At the same time, Merlin hugs him more tightly, strokes Arthur's back. 

“But you did,” Arthur whispers pleadingly, still questioning his luck. 

“I did,” Merlin confirms and smiles a little; Arthur hears it in his voice and feels it at the corners of his mouth, hot against the skin of Arthur's neck. 

So many questions unanswered, _why_ , and _how_ and _what now_ , none of which are crucial right now. The only thing that matters is feeling Merlin's heartbeat under his hands, quick and alive. Arthur pulls him closer until there's no distance left. 

 

**Distance**  
The cat is silent. Staying out of reach, watching him carefully from afar. 

Observing, attentive and cautious, with intent and an air of resentfulness Arthur might only just imagine. The one time he tries to touch it, extending his hand carefully, a finger arching softly to stroke along the graceful line of a furred back, the cat ducks and hisses and disappears beneath the bed.

Arthur keeps his hands to himself afterwards. 

 

 **Summer**  
Merlin is thinner than before. Arthur winces guiltily as his hands slide over palpable rips and a protruding hipbone. His touches are both exploration and inventory. Maybe a little reassurance, too, like wanting to make sure Merlin's really there, that he's not going to disappear again the moment Arthur closes his eyes.

Arthur finds a ticklish spot right below his navel, and Merlin squirms under Arthur's touch, shuddering breathlessly. His hands clutch the blanket, but he keeps them there obediently, the way Arthur asked him to. Merlin's spread out on the bed like a feast, beautiful in the shine of the candles he's lit with his magic. Arthur can't stop looking, can't stop touching, smelling, tasting with open lips and the tip of a tongue whenever the urge strikes him. It strikes him often. 

He follows the trail of soft dark hair over pale, flawless skin that conceals a lean, well-muscled chest and a slightly softer belly, leading down to an abundance of coarse pubic hair, the smell so different there, so different from a woman's, musky and intense. Arthur presses his nose into it and inhales deeply. Merlin's cock, flushed and hard, jerks at that, a silent plea if Arthur's ever heard one, and he answers it the only way he can, turns his head and licks along the hot, swollen flesh. Merlin cries out, and Arthur shushes him, runs his hands along Merlin's trembling thighs soothingly. “Let me,” he says. “Just let me do this.”

“You - you don't have to”, Merlin pants, but the way he groans as Arthur licks again, right at the head, tasting the liquid that's gathered there, contradicts his words.

“I want to,” Arthur replies, and applies himself to the task.

It takes time to become acquainted with the act, finding out how much of it he can take into his mouth, how to avoid the scratch of teeth, how to move his tongue to make Merlin moan and shiver. Merlin's hands caress Arthur's shoulder, trying not to apply too much pressure, to make Arthur take him deeper as he clearly wants to. The long fingers get less coordinated the longer Arthur goes on, digging in his flesh painfully, leaving bruises.

Arthur doesn't care. He sucks, licks, addicted to it: the taste, the noises Merlin makes above him, so obviously losing control now. Merlin bucks up, hard, and Arthur gags, draws back a little to take a deep breath. He pins Merlin's hips down with his hands, not bothering to acknowledge the desperate apology and simply goes on, bobbing his head faster.

Merlin whimpers, another new, alluring sound, and somehow Arthur knows exactly what it means. He redoubles his efforts, sucking _hard_ , and registers the exact moment Merlin breaks, stiffening and crying out, a mere second before Arthur's mouth is filled with thick, hot pulses of semen. 

Arthur coughs, swallows, coughs again. He wipes his mouth on the sheets, weirdly grateful his face is hidden from Merlin's gaze. 

Merlin tugs at his shoulders, a demand Arthur obeys at last. He slides up and lies down next to Merlin, face hot with embarrassment. He's still hard, harder than before, it wouldn't take much. Just looking at Merlin, sweaty and quivering with aftershocks with his eyes closed, blush slowly fading from his cheeks, makes it impossible for Arthur to calm down, to think straight. He still wants, so much, but he can't – he can't just -”

“Come here, Arthur,” Merlin whispers, reaching for him, pulling and tugging until Arthur's in top of him. 

Merlin opens his eyes. They shine blue and brightly, full of affection, and he stares up at Arthur, taking his breath away.

“ _Gods_ ”, Arthur whispers. He can't – he has to – his hips start moving, involuntarily, pushing against Merlin's. His cock, leaking, brushes over Merlin's sweat-slick belly and adds to the wetness. Their eyes never lose contact while Arthur grinds, thrusts, painfully aroused.

Merlin's legs settle around his waist, draw him in closer. Arthur moans, overwhelmed by the sensation that's so close to the vision of his fever dream, moving faster and urgently while Merlin strokes his back and shoulders. 

Too soon he feels the orgasm approach, like a wave surging higher and higher, cresting. It's never felt like this, never, and Arthur gasps “Merlin, Merlin” and spills all over his belly with a deep sob, the unbearable intensity of it leaving him utterly shaken.

He collapses on top of Merlin. Still trembling, he burrows his head in the juncture of Merlin's neck and shoulders. It seems like a good place to stay.

After a while Arthur becomes aware of Merlin's careful attempts to change their position and realises he's too heavy, Merlin can't be comfortable bearing his weight like this. He sighs and shifts so he's lying next to Merlin rather than on top of him. Merlin turns to his side so that they face each other, legs entangling, and pulls up a blanket to tuck them in. 

“Too hot,” Arthur complains and tries to wriggle out of it without breaking the skin-on-skin contact.

“I get cold easily.”

“That's because you're too skinny,” Arthur mumbles.

He hears the smile in Merlin's voice. “You have to feed me better.”

“I don't want a spoilt cat”, he replies without thinking, falling back into the habit of friendly banter so easily.

Merlin laughs. “If you want me to change back more often, you'll have to provide at least some food for me. Especially if you want us to keep doing _this_.” His hand slides over Arthur's back, a firm caress from his nape down to the curve of his buttock. Arthur draws a sharp breath, arching into the touch. Merlin's hand stays on his ass, and Arthur realises he doesn't mind at all.

“All right, then,” he agrees, the talking point long forgotten.

They're silent for a while.

“You can't come back, not for real, I mean,” Arthur says eventually. “Not until my father... not until I'm king.”

Merlin's face falls a little, and he sighs. “I know.”

Guilt threatens to overwhelm Arthur. “Merlin -”

“Oh, shut up,” Merlin says and rolls his eyes. “Now that I can change back, it'll be a lot easier to handle.”

Arthur frowns. “You mean you _couldn't_ change back?” he asks incredulously. “Gaius said you're the most powerful sorcerer of mankind!”

Merlin coughs and blushes. “Yeah, well, it was a little difficult at first. Took a while for me to become myself again, to not just be a cat. And then... I guess I didn't want to. I was still mad as hell at you.”

Arthur snorts. “You mean you waited for me to blurt out all my sentimental feelings and beg for your forgiveness.”

“Something like that,” Merlin admits with a grin.

“I hate you,” Arthur says.

“No, you really don't. I listened to all your whispered confessions, remember?”

Arthur prefers not to think about it.

He lets his head rest on Merlin's shoulder. “As long as it means you'll stay.

“I will,” Merlin says quietly, and Arthur takes a deep breath and relaxes, finally content, in Merlin's arms.

 

 **Morning**  
In the morning, Merlin is gone. Arthur wakes lying on straightened out linens, sheets clean as freshly fallen snow, not a shred of evidence hinting at the activities that took place last night or the mess they made of the bed.

Oscar brought breakfast already and is currently busy laying out clothes for Arthur to choose from. 

The cat lies on the window-sill, basking in the early morning sun. 

Arthur uses the chamber pot and washes perfunctorily. He slips into shirt and breeches and sits down for breakfast, quite aware of the fact the cat is watching him, for once not making any attempt to hide it. He eyes the breakfast tray. Bread with cheese and a slice of bacon, honey-sweetened oatmeal, apples and a few strawberries. Arthur's stomach decides to let him know it's empty with a deep growl.

“Oscar, would you mind asking the cook whether I could have some more bacon? And maybe a jug of milk? I feel downright famished today.” 

“Right away, sire,” Oscar says, bows to him and leaves the room.

The cat declares its approval.

 

~ fin ~


End file.
